Horizon Ridge Stubborn is as Stubborn does (Bjorn)

If Björn had wanted to at a later date when his body was not ravaged with fever, he could have easily claimed that his actions were simply a part of a delirium and that he had not been himself. In some ways, it would not qualify as a outright lie because he was delirious with fever and while it was effecting his thoughts it was not wholly delirium. In the delusion he had forgotten who he was supposed to be, the deceptively charming and handsomely but scarred Nord looking for his ‘long lost’ son, and instead knew only who he was and what he wanted. The maiden was not of his culture (and tokio is assuming maybe not a maiden at this point?) but that failed to matter to Björn. It had not mattered when he had taken Sif, who, also, was not a Viking, she had shied away from his advances and turned him down countless times despite that she was his. Circumstances were vastly different in this moment, and Björn was in a place where his culture’s ways was not so widely accepted.

Scarred and unscarred ears slicked back to his head as she scolded him. “Then don’t say things that displease me, mær,” The Viking spoke gruffly, simply. “My wound is reisiligr…,” Björn gave pause as if realizing that she would not understand his native words. “…healing.” He decided dismissively, attempting to shoo away her fussing and worries. Björn’s teeth had made contact with the warm fur of her flank and the Berserker was left to lick his teeth as she side swept him and asked him not to do it with the word kindly in front. A bubble of delirium induced laughter escaped his lips a husky sound as a smug sneer took his expression, glassy eyes locking upon her. “You say that with a conviction that I know what the word means,” The words ‘kindly’ and ‘Viking’ did not particularly ever walk hand in hand, or even remotely in the same sentence. Their culture was widely romanced but the glossy, romanced version was a false one.

He made to move but the shift of weight jarred his shoulder painfully, tearing at the infected scabs that had began to grow, and blood welled and spilled over. The pain as it shot through him like the kiss of red-hot metal to his skin, caused his eyes to darken with clarity, clearing his mind - if only temporarily - from the delirium. Lucid once more, he donned a sheepish expression, hinted with a bit of confusion for a nice effect as he blinked at her. While he was lucid, he was able to stop himself from being a heathen - or rather pretend not to be a heathen. “Damnit,” Slipped from his accent ridden tongue, both in disappointment in himself for slipping and because he’d opened what had began to scab. His nostrils flared as the metallic scent of his blood, coupled with the sickly scent of the festering taunted him. He lapped at the warm, crimson liquid as it spilled, attempting to keep it from matting in his fur.